this is what we live for, how we learn who we are
by moments of gold
Summary: It isn't anything they'll ever talk about, ever openly acknowledge—that is, if he makes it out alive. They'll go back and never speak of this again, file it away as a shared memory. But he knows she needs it just as much as he does.


**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

Set during that scene during "The Depths" (although I did tweak the scene a little bit).

This is (sort of) my first Sanctuary fic, so I'm not entirely confident in my ability to write these two. And I'm reeeeeeeally nervous, for the record. I tend to go dark and angsty and I'm afraid maybe I went _too_ dark on this. Any type of review is welcome, I'm never one to shy away from criticism.

When her hand moves to cup the back of his head, he silently pleads her to not to go back. For now, all daggers thrown at each other are temporarily forgiven and they shift back to who they used to be.

_Just leave me here_, he says, _don't risk your life for me_. _Get out of here while you still can_.

She doesn't listen.

(She never does.)

_You're going to be okay_, she wordlessly tells him, _just be strong_. _We're going to get out of here._

Her eyes speak the volumes she doesn't trust her words to. She's too brave to let a tear fall, to let him down like that and to crumble when he needs her to be the tower, so she bites her lip and prays to god that her heart won't betray her now.

He offers a weak smile in return.

(She doesn't want him to smile. Doesn't want him to accept this. She desperately wants—_needs_-him to fight.)

She leans in, hovering millimeters above before softly pressing her lips to his cheek.

(She tries to ignore the spot of warm blood her lips touch, a cruel reminder of the reality she's trying _so_ goddamn hard to blind herself to for just this brief moment.)

She lingers—blurring the line between a friendly, chaste reassurance and maybe a little something more.

He summons the last of his strength to bring his hand up to her cheek, gently turning her toward him until he feels her lips brush his.

(He can taste his own blood on her, but just barely.)

It's soft at first, experimental.

(He never thought this would be the circumstances under which he'd finally work up the courage to do this.)

He half-expects her to pull away, so he's pleasantly surprised when she shifts her weight, leaning into him, pressing herself to him. She brings her other hand up to his cheek, her caress feather-light. His tongue finds its way into her mouth, and she allows him to explore, wondering why it took so long for them to get here.

He's kissing her because it seems like the right thing to do, maybe the only thing left to do. Maybe it's a peace offering – if he never again moves from this spot, he hardly wants her last memory of him to be him tearing her down, hating her. Maybe he just wants her to know he's okay, and whatever happens today, he'll be okay with it (despite the hell he gave her earlier that would suggest the contrary).

When she pulls away, she won't look at him. Doesn't want to look into his eyes because she'll think about how it could be the last time, and that's too dangerous a thought for her right now.

It isn't anything they'll ever talk about, ever openly acknowledge—that is, if he makes it out alive. They'll go back and never speak of this again, file it away as a shared memory. But he knows she needs it just as much as he does.

"I'll be back," she whispers, rising and brushing her pants off-but he grabs her wrist, twisting her back to him

"Magnus—" he starts, his voice barely above a whisper. "Helen," he rectifies.

_Now or never_.

"I love you," he finishes before he can think twice. His voice is weak, but his tone steady.

He doesn't say it because he needs to hear it back; he doesn't say it to profess an admiration he's been harboring all this time. He just needs her to _know_ that he felt something deeper for her than friendship, than co-workers, because, goddammit, if he dies before she gets back, he'll never forgive himself for taking it to his grave.

She shuts her eyes and tries to swallow the lump in her throat. "I know," she says softly, upon finding her voice again.

(_She understands_, she knows exactly what was behind his words and that it bared no weight of reciprocation. To him, that's the best response he could've received.)

He nods, releasing his grip on her wrist, his fingers slowly trailing down her arm. "Good."

She half-smiles at him before setting off.

"Good luck."


End file.
